


7:48

by sadclown



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, a take on what might've happened the friday following the fourth of july, this makes me really fucking sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-16 14:31:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19652689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadclown/pseuds/sadclown
Summary: Seven o'clock on a Friday at Enzo's, Joyce sits opposite an empty chair at an empty table.





	7:48

She books a table for two knowing the waiter will only be seating one.

The chair beneath her feels like it could cave in at any second. There’s a chance it’s because of the chair’s stuttering groan it makes when she scoots in closer towards the table, but it’s really the heaviness that toils in her heart that seems to pull her down, down, down.

Hands resting against the slightly stained tablecloth that covers the table she resides at, Joyce tilts her empty wine glass to the side and does not look at the empty chair in front of her. The one _he_ should be sitting in. Not his ghost. Even the mere thought of the idea his ghost could be sitting across from her sends a multitude of shivers down her spine; goosebumps across the back of her neck, like Will had told her. The goosebumps that showed up whenever the monster was around.

 _A new monster must be around then,_ Joyce thinks. A new ghost. 

“Would you like to order an entrée yet, Ma’am?” a voice greets her ears. Her face stays stoic as her eyes travel upwards, registering the fact that someone’s spoken to her. The same man that has refilled her wine glass three times. The same man that has asked what she’d like to order _three times._

She holds her breath before answering, her hand rising to brush her hair behind her ear and a tight smile forming on her lips. “The drinks are fine. Thank you.”

The waiter clears his throat. “You’ve been sitting here for over an hour, Ma’am,” he pries. “Is your date running late? Perhaps you would like to order ahead for them.”

She opens her mouth to reply but the words that threaten to spill out terrify her. _He’s not coming,_ she thinks— a normal response to a no show.

But it's the following words of _he’s never coming_ that breaks out of that first thought and kisses tears into the backs of her eyes. She trembles with the idea of it, releasing the grasp she has on her wine glass to clasp the side of the tablecloth as if to keep her from falling over into that _down._

“Ma’am?” the nosy waiter inquires at her silent response. He has very blonde hair and smile lines tattooed on his cheeks. The wrinkles mimic her own faint smile creases yet she hasn’t genuinely filled them out since July fourth. It’s been a day or so since then but she almost feels she’s already forgetting what it’s like to mean a smile.

“Drinks are fine,” she whispers softly, eyes resting downwards, exhausted. Wanting to go home but also wanting to stay in case—

In case of nothing.

_He's never coming._

“There was a man here who was in your exact position a few days ago,” the waiter seems to speak to himself. Still not knowing his name, she only disinterestedly hums in reply. “In both ways. He sat exactly where you’re seated and his partner hadn’t shown up either. Perhaps you both got the date wrong, ah?”

Joyce’s eyebrows flicker up and she scoffs in feign intrigue. “Perhaps,” she replies, eyes skirting around the candle that lies in the middle of the table, the tiny flame dancing quietly inside it’s glass house.

“Mm. Was an ugly sight,” the waiter continues. “Fellow got so drunk— caused a big commotion. Turns out he's the chief of police of Hawkins but I could've guessed with a jackass like that. Must've had a rough night but they don't pay me enough to work with those kind of lads. Oh and look at me, I'm rambling. I can bring the bill if you’d—”

“Wait,” It takes a second for it to click— it's like a snap of possible hope reaching towards her. She takes its hand. “He was the chief?"

“Who?"

"The— the man.”

"The man I was sp—"

“Yes, yes, the man you just were telling me about,” she speaks quickly, how she does. Curious and hopeful: “He was the chief?”

Eyes wide in surprise of her sudden interest, the waiter replies suspiciously, “I believe so. He cried out that he was but I double checked with law enforcement to be sure."

Sitting up a bit more in her seat, Joyce asks, trying to ignore the pins and needles of emotions swelling up inside her chest, "Cried... out? That he was?" The man nods. "Oh. What happened... exactly?"

“Was carrying out a bottle of chianti when he said it. Loud and proud like the _behemoth_ he is. I told him we didn’t allow alcohol off the premise but he....”

He doesn’t go on. As if what happened was _unspeakable._ “But he what?”

The man pauses as if recalling it as a horrific memory, making a disgusted expression. “Spat into my _face,_ Ma’am. Then said he was chief of police and that he could _do_ what he _wanted.”_

Joyce is quiet. It could be anyone that said that. It could be any drunken bastard on some Tuesday night who had too much to drink thus too much to say. But Jim Hopper’s face materializes in her head. And she looks over at the empty chair in front of her. And she imagines him doing such a thing the waiter described as such a traumatizing experience. And she _remembers_ the way he smiled when he was drunk; a sloppy, lopsided grin that told her he was about to say something he wouldn’t say sober. She _remembers_ the way he laughed when he was drunk; much like his sober laugh but more unashamed— louder and every time he sounded like he’d just heard the funniest thing in the _world._ She _remembers_ one time he laughed so hard, the cigarette he was smoking fell out and dropped onto the floor, and he’d just bent down, picked it up, and stuck it right back into his mouth. She remembers. She _remembers._

She laughs.

And it’s in a way where if she had a cigarette in her mouth, it would’ve fell out.

She laughs and it’s the kind of laugh where she has to raise her hand up as if she’s apologizing. But she’s laughing too hard to even say _sorry._ She slaps her hand onto the table and the utensils that rest upon it jolt up sporadically as if there’d been a mini earthquake underneath the tablecloth.

“Ma’am?” The waiter says to her for the thirtieth time that night. “Are you alright?”

Her head bobs up and down in response as her smile never ceases. Will’s told her before that she cackles like a witch when she laughs like that, but she told him if that meant she’d be able to cast spells then that wasn’t such a bad thing. If she could cast spells now....

Still giggling now, like a child who’s just said a bad word to themselves, Joyce nods again and looks up at the waiter, wiping tears out of her eyes. “Yes— Yes, I’m— _God,_ that _sounds like him.”_

“Who?” The man questions before putting two and two together. Equaling four, he asks, “You know him personally? The chief?”

Answers fly throughout her head like fireworks without the explosion. Just a spark of light that shoots upwards and then fades into nothing. No pop, no bang. No _oooh_ and _aaaah_. Just thought of _yeah. Yeah, I know him._

_I know Jim Hopper. I’ve known him since freshman year of High School. We had the same English class and he always got in trouble for falling asleep during it. We officially met when I caught him sneaking out to smoke and I asked if I could join him. He looked at me as if I’d— well, as if he thought I was going to rat on him. Was always very good at paying attention to people’s characters. He made the perfect policeman. But he said no the first time. Or, didn’t answer me and instead just walked off which... was basically a no if you ask me, hah. It took me bringing my own pack of cigarettes the next day to show him when I asked again for him to even consider it. Asked why I hadn’t brought them yesterday. And I told him I didn’t know it was allowed. And he laughed— that was the first time I’d ever seen him laugh. And he said no, girl from my English class, it isn’t. So I told him my name was Joyce. And he told me his name was Jim. And I asked if we could smoke now. And he said yes. He said yes. It was one of the best things I’d ever done._

Joyce isn’t laughing anymore. In fact, she’s crying. Tiny tears but nonetheless, she’s crying. She knows he isn't coming, though a bit of her hoped that someway— _someway _he would.__ But she knows. She knows. She nods once more and with blurry vision she looks up at the waiter again. She smiles a genuine smile. And she says:

“Yeah. I did. I did. I’ll take the bill, please.”

**Author's Note:**

> remember to realize when pain is good pain and keep the door open three inches folks


End file.
